Can you see it?
Can you witness the swing?
Of such hollow cradle
we share, build a world on, call it stable
I saw emotional disarrangement
And felt so pretty
It was holding onto my leg,
Like a kid who is worse than me
The cigarette between my
Teeth are longing to perish
I don't smoke
Because my reflection is calling it quits
At the end, a tree with white sap
And broader leaves
A crying violin,
Sounding in the fantasy of my little bleed
A little misfit, a rebel
Amongst drunken kings and queens

when we are asleep, I dream at nigh width
an empty room so large, yet nothing filled with
the garden and jolly smile behind which
the empty room lurks beside the breeze of breath

the saddening of a clown when he finds his wife died
along with his child in hand who smiled like
fresh-picked daisies, with eyes that cried
towards the pass of his limited time, in the room

the room were perfectly aligned, a job well done for Sarah
The architect, slowly shes burnout off it, in a pit where
she bruises herself, and her bones each time she's not enough
when the room is done, we will find her dead with no blood

this equation is not holding still, the despair for mathematics
or detain of truth, something philosophy introduced with tricks
but when the funding is over or when you naturally give up
you might be a fool to hang yourself, just join the room
you might just be what we are looking for

search for reason, a time well wasted
well rested
but I think it spilled from the palm of
my hands, drew by myself
twisting of bones
juices under crushed flesh,
my eyes caught the culprit
a debt,
and all that we tossed around
I knew a person, let's call her Rain
(a stupid name), a beautiful name
when she comes around the thing
that causes her pain
she crosses the uphill and ciphers
to some degree and the next day
when the thing is sleeping
she hugs it, and thanks it for the power
and a time well-rested
not wasted
I guess evil is okay when asleep

a pause is when we stop talking, remember that
pauses are important. you should pause in the middle
I should not avoid the mirror
the face, myself trenched in only ugly feeling.
ironic, because in any public transport, when I see
beauty, I recognize a feeling, a chance as it grips away
discontent, bruises in my flesh, not physically, leads to
metamorphism into a cacoon like Jerry
in that episode of Rick and Morty, powerless but friends
with the smartest person, who is now dead
pause
think about the forbidden energy gap in thoughts of negative,
emotions of everything and everyone, who said
things, unheard, boundless by the measure of the height of dread.
I must be dreaming because I wish we were dead,
I wish you were here, to see the poem as it unfolds
(chronic pain), nothing is left that brings me hope
but the chance to leave everything and start a new life, back from
the cocoon and face me
pause
but I wish we were not dead